


A Light From the Shadows

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Cultural Differences, Everybody Lives, Feels, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo had learned a thing or two about dwarves since the fateful day he sprinted out of Bag End’s front door. He knew they loved song, lived to be a ridiculous age, and told outlandish stories nearly constantly. He also knew they were terribly literal in everything they said. An offhand comment from a dwarf was better than a promise, and an oath from one was an unshakable as the roots of mountains. (Bagginshield, everybody lives, coronation time!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Light From the Shadows

Bilbo had learned a thing or two about dwarves since the fateful day he sprinted out of Bag End’s front door. He knew they loved song, lived to be a ridiculous age, and told outlandish stories nearly constantly. He also knew they were terribly literal in everything they said. An offhand comment from a dwarf was better than a promise, and an oath from one was an unshakable as the roots of mountains.

\--

“I would dress you in the finest leather and chain,” growled Thorin, his voice like fire in the cold night. “I would adorn you in the best silver and jewels Erebor has to offer, so that all who look upon you will immediately know your worth.” Bilbo had shivered at the edge in his voice and the dancing path of his fingers and then promptly forgot Thorin’s words.

Many months after that dalliance in Beorn’s Carrock—indeed, even many months after their last dalliance before the war, in Dale, Bilbo sat on the edge of his bed in Erebor, twisting fingers through his waistcoat, debating how to prepare for the coronation.

Bilbo’s anxious musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come in,” he squeaked, then cleared his throat, attempting to banish nerves.

“Master Baggins,” greeted Balin, hesitating in the doorway, “it would greatly please me should you accompany me.”

“But—I’m not dressed yet—“ Bilbo protested, before registering Balin’s unusual formality.        

“That is a thing easily fixed, and later, Master Baggins. Please, we have a tight schedule….” Balin motioned to the hall outside and Bilbo automatically rose and stepped past him, a look of relief crossing Balin’s face. Dwalin, Gloin, and Oin waited outside, each bowing at Bilbo. Increasingly unnerved by this behavior, Bilbo attempted to pluck a question from the air and settled on a simple, “Why?” There was silence as the four dwarves arranged themselves in a guard of honor boxing him in, and Balin and Dwalin shared a glance.

“Because it is time,” Dwalin said, and Bilbo abandoned all hope for sanity, cursing secretive dwarves in his head.

He was escorted deep into the mountain, on a path he was familiar with, and was already deeply suspicious of the going-ons when his guard stopped and Balin knocked at the door to the King’s suite.

Bilbo was puffing himself up to unleash a truly ear-burning rebuke to Thorin—who Bilbo hadn’t seen hide nor hair of for nearly a week, the bloody cheek of him, after Bilbo helped nurse him back to health, and not to mention their bloody _relationship_ —when the door was opened by Dís. She nodded at Balin, and the impromptu honor guard bowed again to Bilbo, muttering what sounded like well-wishes, and each pressed a hand to Bilbo’s arm or back before taking their leave. Dís ushered him into the otherwise empty suite, and Bilbo finally found his voice again.

“Is _anyone_ going to tell me what’s going on here?” he nearly shrieked, propping his fists on his hips. “Is it Thorin?” Bilbo cast an anxious eye at the empty bed that had so recently held the recovering king. “Has he gone and gotten himself killed already, after all my hard work?” As Bilbo took a breath to settle into his tirade, Dís grabbed his arm and gently tugged him towards the bathing chamber, a softly amused look on her face.

“Of course not, Master Baggins,” she said, closing the door behind her. “My dearest brother—“ and Dís’ dry sarcasm promised yet another in a long line of spectacular rows with Thorin later, “—has apparently not seen fit to inform you. We are to prepare you for the coronation.” She gestured to the full tub beside her, surrounded with fine soaps and towels.

Bilbo sighed, all the fight taken out of him. “Dís, you don’t have to do this,” he said weakly. He had gotten very fond of the witty and bossy dwarf over the past few weeks, and treating her as a servant burned the pit of his stomach.

Dís turned to him, brow furrowed. “You would deny me this honor?” she asked, clearly puzzled. “Do you wish another attendant, perhaps from the Company?”

“Well—no—“ Bilbo fumbled and Dís nodded, closing in on the hobbit.

“Good,” said Dís, and she grabbed the hem of Bilbo’s waistcoat. “Off with this, then.”

\--

Dís deposited Bilbo on Thorin’s bed when she was finished with him, giving him a motherly kiss on the forehead before leaving. Bilbo fingered the hem of his soft white shirt—all he had on, a shirt and smalls, like a child!—and wondered if he’d ever see Thorin, or if this strange day would start making sense.

As though the thought had summoned him, Thorin swept through the door, Fíli and Kíli trailing behind, one carrying a chest and the other a pile of clothing. The brothers deposited their burdens and bowed, an identical devilish twinkle in their eyes, before leaving.

Thorin loomed over Bilbo, dressed up to a weskit all in midnight blue, and with no gems or braided hair. Bilbo reached for Thorin and then changed his mind, hand hovering between them. “Thorin—I don’t—what—“ he started, and Thorin knelt before him, grabbing his hand and holding it tenderly.

“Did I not tell you I would dress you in all the treasures of Erebor?” said Thorin, eyes searching Bilbo’s dumbfounded face. “And so the time has come…unless you no longer wish it so?” A crease formed between his eyes, the only sign of worry or sadness that Thorin allowed.

“Of course I do!” Bilbo answered immediately, and Thorin’s face cleared. “But—Thorin—what does this all mean? Is it just the coronation, or more?” They hadn’t often discussed ‘more’, what with the quest and the war and all. Faithfulness had been a thoroughly agreed upon topic in one of the few private conversations they managed on the road, but the specifics—well.

“If you accept my service and appear by my side at the coronation, you will become the Lord Consort. Dwarves do not require a formal ceremony of binding before crowning, but someday I wish it, if it so pleases you.”

Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut, gripping at Thorin’s hands and resisting the urge to faint. He was a stronger hobbit than the one who had entertained thirteen dwarves in his hobbit hole so long ago, though, and he successfully resisted the urge, though he remained dreadfully wrong-footed.

“I’m not the lordling type, Thorin! Just a humble gentlehobbit. I don’t know diplomacy, or statesmanship or, or—mining!”

Thorin chuckled, and Bilbo’s eyes flew open. “Would I ask of you something you could not do?” Bilbo was tempted to point out the whole ‘not-a-burglar’ thing but Thorin began speaking again. “The Lord or Lady Consort is not a role such as that. Rather, the Consort is a person of the ruler’s choosing, not always a partner but sometimes a close friend or family member. The Consort helps keep the King steady, and allows for unfettered conversation without political ramifications. So all I ask of you is what we have discussed—faithfulness, honesty, and loyalty.”

Bilbo laughed, somewhat shakily, and leaned forward until his brow touched Thorin’s. “Of course.”

Thorin squeezed his hand, a choked noise escaping, before standing. “Quickly, then! We are on a schedule, after all.” Humming a snatch of song, Thorin strode over to the pile of clothing left by Kíli, pulling out a pair of wool breeches with panels of finely embossed leather. He returned to Bilbo and knelt, gently guiding the hobbit’s feet through the pant legs. Bilbo moved to stand and froze as Thorin threw him an upset look. Instead, the dwarf stood and looped an arm around Bilbo’s waist, gently lifting him to his feet. Bilbo felt a blush suffuse his face—Thorin’s gentleness and attention were humbling and no small bit arousing. Thorin finished drawing up the breeches and carefully tucked in the shirt, fastening the plackets with what as an _absolutely_ unnecessary brush against the front and a wicked look up from under his brows.

A soft tunic in a jewel-bright blue followed, and then an elaborately embroidered dwarven weskit. Bilbo stood motionless, pinned by Thorin’s scrutiny as he dug about in the clothing, finally pulling out a silver belt gilded with opal and sapphire, and matching vambraces.

“Opal,” Thorin murmured as he buckled it about Bilbo’s waist, “for the delicate beauty of love. Sapphire, for strength and clarity.” He slipped each vambrace on, carefully tightening it, and then stepped back, observing his handiwork. The dwarf dove into the pile of clothes for what Bilbo hoped would be the last time—it could be chilly under the mountain, especially for a hobbit, but not that chilly! But Thorin emerged with a surcoat similar to the one he wore on the journey, except in a bright fresh blue and trimmed in…white Warg fur?

“Wargs are ugly creatures, but their fur is warm and plush. Finally, Azog’s pet beast can be put to a good use!” Thorin smiled at Bilbo, who couldn’t help but to return the expression, although his stomach had begun to drop out of nervousness for his new role in the coronation.

Thorin took him by the hand, leading him over to the chest, before stopping. There he sat and dug through a fortune of gems and precious metals, occasionally pausing to examine a piece before throwing it back or gently setting it aside. He rose with a handful of rings, critically holding a few up to Bilbo’s face before lifting the hobbit’s right hand. He slipped a wide and heavy silver ring with intricate designs on the thumb, a sparking orange gem mounted in gold on the ring finger, and a clear gem ring on the pinky. Thorin touched the clear ring, “quartz, for longevity—“ the orange, “orange topaz, for passion—“ and the silver, “silver, for status, and the design that marks you as a Lord of Erebor.”

Thorin pounced back on the chests as Bilbo stared in awe at the gems on his hand. But again the dwarf stood, gently turning Bilbo’s hand over, giving a reassuring rub to the palm with his thumb before dropping a few hair-clasps and gem beads in it. He set to braiding, quick with years of practice, and Bilbo hoped the short plaits did not look too ridiculous. The last two hair clasps didn’t look right, but before Bilbo could ask, Thorin snatched them up and then a cool pressure wrapped around the outer shell of one ear and then the other. Bilbo shivered at the sensation and Thorin gave him a promising look that quickly turned evaluative. “Nearly done, I think,” he said, digging in a pocket and coming up with a new ring—or rather, a set of rings.

“The Arkenstone!” Bilbo gasped, fingers reaching for its radiance. Thorin captured his bare left hand and slid the smaller of the two rings onto the middle finger. “Does this gem have no meaning?” teased Bilbo, still astounded at the sight of the gem in two pieces.

Thorin offered the other ring to Bilbo and held out his own left hand. “A promise, perhaps,” said Thorin as the ring slipped onto his finger, watching the stone glisten. “And an apology.”

Bilbo couldn’t help himself any longer; he threw himself at Thorin, hugging tightly and burying his face into Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin hugged back just as tightly, desperately.

“I don’t know what I’m doing!” Bilbo nearly wailed. “I was supposed to go back to the Shire, and now I’m going to make you look such a terrible fool at your own coronation that you’ll have to send me back!”

Thorin squeezed him, nearly stealing the breath from his lungs. “Never,” he whispered, the rumble of his voice reassuring against Bilbo’s chest. “There is nothing you could do to embarrass me. All you must do is sit beside me. I will crown you Lord Consort and I will be sure to guide you. Worry more about me making an ass of myself—I assure you, I am perfectly capable of it!” There was an odd note in Thorin’s voice and Bilbo drew back enough to look him in the eyes. There was pride, and excitement, yes, but also fear, and the hobbit felt doltish for not realizing it earlier.

Bilbo reached up and wove his fingers through Thorin’s hair, suppressing a smile at how the tension flowed out of his body instantly.

“Thorin Oakenshield, you great lump,” he said affectionately, “you’re nearly as stupid with worry as I am! Every dwarf in that hall tonight either saw you defend Erebor with your own two hands, or has heard Bofur and Nori’s trumped-up stories about it. I swear, I turned away all the dwarves in this mountain from your bedside while you were healing. Every single one wanted to tend to you personally.” Thorin had sagged forward, head buried in Bilbo’s shoulder as the hobbit worked his clever fingers through the unbraided hair. “You could say the whole thing backwards while standing on your head, for all they care, as long as you are king by the end. And since it’s apparently my official job now to give advice, you had better listen!” Thorin chuckled, raising his head, and Bilbo took the opportunity to grab his ears and force him to lock eyes.

“You will be as great a king as your grandfather,” Bilbo told him solemnly. “Even better, perhaps, since you’ve already learned some of the lessons he never did. Your father would be proud. You fulfilled the promise to reclaim Erebor and I know you will do everything to continue providing for your people.”

Thorin bowed his head, clearly fighting emotion, before roughly grabbing Bilbo’s head and bringing their foreheads together. “Thank you,” he ground out, overcome, and they stood like that for no little while.

A thunderous knocking at the door interrupted them, combined with Fíli and Kíli’s excited shouts.

“A moment!” Thorin bellowed, lifting his head as annoyance passed over his face, followed by fondness. He stepped back, critically eyeing Bilbo up and down. “A bit thin on gems, perhaps, but tradition and time conspire against us. It will serve.”

Fíli and Kíli barged in, trailing what looked like the rest of Thorin’s garb. All three set to, braiding hair and shoving rings on fingers before Fíli handed Bilbo a surcoat that was the larger twin of his own. Bilbo accepted it, fighting briefly with it to sort out which armhole was which before sliding it onto Thorin’s shoulders. Their eyes met, and Thorin looked ready to say something, before Balin burst in, bowing and panting. The sounds of the rest of the company filtered in, and Balin ushered them all out into the center of the honor guard, and they were off.

All down the halls, though, on the long processional to the main hall, Thorin and Bilbo gripped each other’s hands tight.

 _A light from the shadows shall spring_ , Bilbo thought happily to himself, and pressed forth to the next great adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> The gem language Thorin references is indeed based on the idea of Victorian flower language. As I know of no existing language, I made up my own meaning as I felt appropriate.
> 
> The last quote (and the title) is taken from "All that is gold does not glitter", by the master himself. Let's pretend hobbits know that bit of lore.
> 
> My humble offering to this ridiculous and beautiful fandom.


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